


The Dark Mirror

by dairesfanficrefuge_archivist



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-07-21
Updated: 2000-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 05:33:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11867781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist/pseuds/dairesfanficrefuge_archivist
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	The Dark Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

The Dark Mirror by Bagpipes

_The Dark Mirror_

By Bagpipes 

  
21 July 2000

Time Period: One year after _Perchance to Dream_

**Disclaimers:** All standard stuff applies. Highlander and its characters are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, Davis/Panzer, etc. They have been used without permission. No profit of any kind was made by this tale; it's meant for entertainment only. Caitlin Somerled is a character of my own creation and may not be used by anyone else for any reason without my permission. Please do not print, copy, archive, distribute, etc. this story without asking me first. 

* * *

People crowded the small tavern, eager to hear the latest upcoming band. Laughter and the constant hum of friendly chatter filled the lively room, and the music was upbeat with a new twist. Joe Dawson, the tavern's proprietor, leaned back behind the bar, drumming his fingers in time to the music. 

"Been doing a talent search lately?" The tall, dark-haired man slouched on a barstool turned hazel eyes back toward the stage, sipping at a cold bottle of domestic beer. Most knew him as Adam Pierson, but a chosen few knew his true identity as Methos, oldest known Immortal. 

"College kids. They needed a place to get started, and I figured I'd give them a chance." Joe smiled. "They're pretty good, too." 

Methos nodded. It had been a while since he'd gotten to hang out at Joe's place and simply enjoy life outside the Game. The Immortal finished his drink, making it last as his thoughts wandered. Only a few months before he'd been in Iceland with Caitlin where he'd guided her through an intense period of training with her klaive. Weeks of nearly nonstop workouts had given his new student the honed edge she'd needed to take her first Quickening shortly after returning to the States. The battle had been close, but Caitlin had won. Methos felt a stirring of warm pride; Cait had survived that soul-twisting rite of passage every Immortal had to face at some point. 

"Sure you and Caitlin don't want to come along to that jazz festival with me and MacLeod this weekend?" Joe asked. "We're leaving in about a half hour, it's just over the border in Canada." But Methos shook his head. 

"You'll have to tell me about it. I promised Caitlin I'd help her with her term paper before next week." The Immortal stretched and made a mental note to pick up some of his own personal documents to add to Cait's research. 

"You're missing out," Joe warned, unable to resist teasing his friend. Methos only grinned back. Joe knew better than to change the older man's mind. 

"Still have that hard cider?" Joints cracked as Methos stretched. 

"Of course." The Watcher filled a frosty mug and Methos eagerly took it. The band started another number, just as good as the last, and this time Methos truly allowed himself to settle in. 

_Beer and research papers,_ the Immortal smiled. _Things could be plenty worse._

* * *

Rubber burned as the stolen convertible tore around the corner, swerving its way through a long line of traffic before finally halting to a rough stop that nearly dislodged two of its four passengers. 

"Geez, Nails, wanna try going just a _little_ bit faster next time? I've always wanted to know what flying across fifty feet of blacktop was like." 

In the driver's seat, Nails only laughed. 

"As if it would've permanently killed any of us." He patted his leather jacket, feeling the hidden blade in its folds. They were all Immortal, in their mid-twenties outwardly: himself, Kite, Dan, and Alex. Thieves and drug addicts, according to a few community newspapers. Each of them had tried several kinds of illegal narcotics during the past few decades, and their appearance advertised it as well: glassy eyes, quick, frantic movements, or at times complete lethargy as the Immortals crashed from whatever they were currently using. 

"This is lame, dude. There's a bar right over there on the other side of the street. Let's grab a brew and party." Dan restlessly tapped his fingers on the dashboard next to their self-appointed leader, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He offered another to Nails but he slapped it away. 

"Not now, dimwit. I'm Hunting." Nails slouched back, scoured the parking lot of the bar, then the road and small line of shops running along the street where their car was double-parked. 

"Hunting who? There's nobody here." Kite sighed loudly and tossed her used cigarette out onto the road. She brushed strands of dirty hair out of her eyes, hair that had once been blond but had surrendered to being colored stark white. Kite claimed it made her black lipstick and nails more noticeable, along with the several earrings she had in each ear. Alex, nearly unconscious in the seat beside her, slid over and fell against her shoulder. She shoved him back onto his side of the seat, snickering when he woke up. 

"Thanks a lot, K." Alex glared at her through his too-long bangs. Nails ignored them, instead focusing his thoughts on the one thing he was truly addicted to: 

Quickenings. 

Every so often Nails would get an irresistible urge to, as Kite had so phrased it, "reach out and whack somebody." And the fix generated by a Quickening was unlike anything Nails had ever experienced. As they sat in the stolen car pondering what to do with their time, Nails finally gave in to boredom and joined the others in smoking. Just then the sensation of another Immortal brushed their minds. A lone figure was walking down the road, long coat snapping in the cool breeze. Nails grinned like a prowling cat and leapt out of the car's front seat. 

"Be right back guys." Their leader ran his hands through his shoulder-length black hair, cracked his knuckles, and strode off. They watched as Nails confronted the other Immortal, an older looking man with long red hair. The two exchanged a few words that were lost to the three in the car, then took off for the alleyway half a block in from the street. Not too much later the unmistakable flash of a Quickening lit up the afternoon sky, followed by several bolts of lightning. Minutes later Nails came back to the car, breathing heavily, stumbling a little and flying high on the rush. The Immortal had a frantic, desperate look in his eyes that edged insanity. Nails jumped back behind the wheel, sliding down into the seat, blood thundering inside his head. 

"Man, that felt good!" Nails sat back up, sending quick glances left and right. He needed another, and soon. 

"Okay, you've had your fun, now let's go." 

"NO!" Nails grabbed Dan's wrist tightly. "No," Nails repeated. "Just one." The sun began inching lower as the afternoon slowly wore on. Dan sighed. It was always 'just one more' with Nails. It hadn't been that bad ten years ago. Nails had still been highly addicted to Quickenings even then, but not at the famine-intense level he was at now. It was like watching a person go from sated to starved over and over again, and more than once a day. 

Another presence touched the four friends as a tall, lanky man made his way down the walk from the tavern. Nails gestured frantically for them to duck out of sight until the other Immortal had passed. When he did, they resurfaced, all of them staring at the strange man. Nails looked positively feral. He licked his lips. 

"This is gonna be fun." Getting out of the car once more, he prepared to go after his new quarry when Dan stopped him. 

"Are you _crazy_!? Haven't you had enough? You just went through one Quickening--he's gonna to turn you into compost!" 

"He's thinner than a greyhound! I could probably take his head just by breathing on him!" Nails sighed impatiently. "Don't try to stop me. I need this. You guys don't understand. The rush is just . . . too strong to ignore . . . stay here!" Nails went after his newfound quarry. 

* * *

Methos waved to Joe as he left the bar, shoulders hunched into his duster and mentally still humming along with the music. The music festival would have to wait; he didn't feel comfortable leaving Caitlin, his student, when she was still in the early months of her weapons training, in addition to the homework help he'd promised. Four energetic signatures darted across the older Immortal's mind as he headed out to his Rover. Looking across the street covertly, Methos noted the rather bad attempt the other Immortals were making at hiding. 

_Not today. And not now._ Methos made it as far as the car's door when one of the Immortals walked over to him, intentions obvious. The ancient got his first good look at the young--apparently--man. Stringy hair, leather jacket, tattered jeans in the grunge style so many of the current day's college students preferred. The look on his face, however, reminded Methos of a hungry animal that had finally found its prey. And the "kid" was also strung out on something. It was a harsh reminder of his own darker days, days he didn't care to remember. 

"Waiting for an autograph?" Methos began fishing for his keys, not even bothering to look at Nails. 

Three feet of sharpened steel were suddenly in the younger person's hand. 

"You. Me. Now." The kid gestured across the street behind the bar, towards an enclosed construction area as he hid his blade under a coat flap, suddenly afraid of being seen. Looking back at his car, the younger Immortal waved, and the other three slid out of the vehicle and began walking over. 

"Fan club of yours?" 

"If I lose, one of them is going to get you while you're down from the Quickening. But I wouldn't worry. I never lose." Nails grinned like a wild beast, tapping the hilt of his sword. Methos sighed, not bothering to hide the extremely exasperated look on his face. Abandoning the search for his keys, Methos turned to walk alongside the other Immortal, being careful not to stand too close. It would be too risky to run. His antagonist already had his blade ready. 

"Are you sure there isn't something else you'd rather be doing? Reading? Watching television? School, perhaps?" Methos made no effort to hide his irritation. 

"Shut up!" Nails entered the construction area and had his cavalry saber pulled back for a swing before Methos had taken another step. Leaping backwards, twisting around to balance himself, the ancient drew his broadsword. Metal sang, sparks flew. Nails fought furiously but recklessly, trying savagely to gain some advantage from his opponent. The other three Immortals entered the site, standing by the entrance with their blades near at hand and enjoying the fight with eager expressions. Watching Nails was always entertaining. Methos, however, was far more experienced and quite sober. It didn't take long for the older man to disarm him and make the final swing. 

The Quickening was as vicious as its host had been. Raw energy tore its way through Methos, the sky, and the partially constructed frames of buildings. Lightning ran along the steel beams, using the Immortal's body as a grounding point repeatedly. Finally the ethereal storm ended and Methos fell back against a stack of wood, allowing the aftereffects of the Quickening to dissipate. It had left him with a headache this time and he didn't feel like another fight. Only then did Methos note the other Immortals, watching him in shock. Alex gaped at the scene. 

"Holy sh--" 

"He whacked Nails?" Kite stared, wide-eyed. 

"I'll take care of this." Dan started to draw his own sword when Kite stopped him with a fierce jerk on his coat collar. 

"What are you, _stupid_? This guy could kill us all if he wanted!" 

"I'm _outta_ here, gang." Alex turned and ran away with a shower of gravel beneath his feet. 

"We can't just let this go!" Dan looked at Kite. 

"Right now we are. If he took out Nails that fast we don't stand a chance! Let's blow this place." 

Dan started to argue, then looked back at Methos, sword pointed in the older Immortal's direction. 

"This isn't over." Dan followed his friend out of the compound, sword cutting the air in fury. 

Methos sighed in relief, returned his blade to his coat with a flourish, and headed for his car. Once inside, he sank into the seat, trying to relax in hopes that the headache would vanish. The rhythmic drumming in his head actually felt worse. And his coat felt strangely confining, a shell wrapping heat around his body. 

_Just some lingering aftereffects._ Methos briefly considered returning to Joe's for a nap in the back room but by now his friend had already gone to meet Duncan for the music festival. _No matter. I'm going over to Caitlin's soon anyway._ The thought cheered him, and for a few minutes Methos could almost forget about the odd headache. 

* * *

The drive over to Caitlin's small house near Seacouver University campus wasn't long, but by the time he'd arrived Methos felt like he was slow-roasting in his duster with an axe buried in his skull. No Quickening had ever left him like this before. The Immortal lay back against the car seat as a faint feeling of dizziness overcame him before slowly getting out of the Rover. Knocking on the front door, Methos felt his eagerness fade a bit when he didn't sense an Immortal presence. As he turned to wait in the car a sudden wave of vertigo swam through Methos, bursts of prismatic color exploding in his field of vision as he collapsed on the front porch . . . 

Sometime later he woke, feeling just as bad, if not worse, than when he'd fainted. Methos lay still, drained and weak. Judging by the sun, he hadn't been out more than an hour, but it had felt like days. Just then a presence flickered through Methos' mind. The annoying headache was instantly amplified, and the Immortal clutched at his head, groaning as he curled up. He instinctively fumbled for his Ivanhoe but couldn't find the strength to pull the blade free. And the new arrival wasn't Caitlin. 

"Well, well, well." 

Heavy booted feet thumped solidly onto the porch. The Immortal that had more or less promised Methos a rematch back at the construction site stood just off of one side, and the fallen man could hear a soft metallic hiss as the saber was slowly drawn. Dan was holding the weapon in one hand, leaning it across a shoulder. 

"Looks like I get my chance after all!" Dan grinned, chuckling a little. He looked at Methos, triumphantly leering. "Need help with that?" Dan reached down and wrenched the Ivanhoe's hilt from Methos' loose grip. Tossing the saber aside, he held up the broadsword, admiring it. 

" _Nice_ blade, my friend. Kinda funny how it's going to be used against you, isn't it?" 

Images of his one-time capture by the Watchers flashed in Methos' mind, and he tried to back away, forcing himself to his elbows in a desperate attempt to escape. 

"Wrong move!" Dan held out the Ivanhoe, point scraping Methos' neck. "Stay still. You won't feel a thing." He smiled coldly as another presence-sense hit them. 

"Good. We've got an audience." Dan's eyes flashed savagely as he pulled the blade back and swung it--striking cold metal mere inches from Methos, a loud clang shattering the silent afternoon. Standing in front of him, shielding the oldest Immortal, was a tall woman, her long black hair tied back in a braid and her weapon of choice, a klaive, blocking the intended strike. 

"You can't interfere with this! Get outta here!" Dan tried maneuvering around her for another attack. Again she intervened. 

"I can if you're not playing by the rules." Her voice was cold. 

"One on one. And this ain't holy ground, lady!" 

"You call this one on one? He's unarmed. And he's also my friend. If you want to live I'd better not ever see you around here--or him--again, or losing your head will be the least of your problems." The interloper narrowed her eyes at Dan, blue-gray slits never breaking contact. "And you can drop the blade." 

Sending them both an evil stare, the young Immortal fumed, threw the Ivanhoe to the porch, and stormed off, cursing under his breath as he took up his own weapon. Caitlin watched him until he was far down the sidewalk, then quickly turned back to Methos. 

"What happened?" Cait knelt down by his side, tossing her klaive to the doormat. Methos fought to recall everything but his efforts were hindered by the unceasing pounding in his head. 

"One of his friends challenged me . . . I won. Something--wrong--with the Quickening . . . " The explosion of color returned, and Methos fell back to the floor, abandoning sitting for the moment. Caitlin instinctively reached out to help her friend and was alarmed at the warmth radiating from him. Resting a hand against his forehead, concern deepened into worry. She'd been told that Immortals didn't get sick, but Methos was obviously running a fever. 

"Come on inside." 

Cait slid an arm around Methos, pulling him to his feet as she led him to the door. The transition sent the older Immortal reaching for the door frame as he steadied himself. They were barely in the house when everything went dark again. 

* * *

He was in the desert. Hot, arid winds blew around him, savagely taking what little moisture remained and returning it to the air. Methos trudged along the rocky land, long hair tangled and full of windblown sand and dirt. The only things he owned were his tattered clothes and a stolen blade he'd managed to take from the village he'd recently escaped from. His body ached with the phantom pain of the stones the inhabitants had pelted him with before proclaiming him a demon and tying him to a stake in the middle of nowhere. He'd already died from heat exhaustion enough to know what it would feel like again. And the memory of waking to the sensation of being pecked over by carnivorous avians wasn't a pleasant one. 

He'd eventually cut himself free with the hidden sword once the villagers had left him, but the edge was far too dull to be truly useful and severing the heavy ropes had taken hours. Within that time Methos had been sunburned, healed, burned yet again, healed . . . Now nothing mattered to him but water. Water, and revenge. He'd been a victim of circumstance for over a thousand years. No more. He wanted to be the conqueror, the champion. The one who made others scream and beg for release the way he had when the first sharp stones had struck him. For now, though, he had no followers, no army, no friends of his own. There was only the sand. And rocks. One more step. Another. And another. The mountains on the horizon were still wavering mirages. 

A dark shape parted from the shimmering heat-images in the distance, growing larger as it came closer. Methos continued walking, bare feet blistering and healing repeatedly. The shape became recognizable as a mounted rider, great clouds of dust kicking up behind the horse's hooves. Methos drew his dull blade as the unmistakable sense of an Immortal's presence hummed through his thoughts. The black rider galloped past him, close enough for the furs beneath the saddle to brush against Methos. The dark Immortal spun his horse about, coming to a halt as he looked down, a wicked looking broadsword held aloft. 

"I have no battle with you." Methos eyed the waterskin tied to the other man's saddle. The strange Immortal slid off of his horse, and Methos got his first good look at him. 

He wore a dark metal mask and a set of black clothes covered with shining silver plates. The sword in his hand had a curved, spiked handguard. The man pulled off his mask, revealing a scarred face painted in abstract patterns. 

"Greetings, brother. I am Kronos." He came closer to Methos, who raised his blade cautiously. "What do they call you?" Kronos held his own blade out, as though issuing a challenge. 

"Methos. And I say again, I do not wish to fight." 

Kronos grinned. 

"Of course you don't. Everyone in these parts knows how foolish it is to cross my path. Which, by the way, you have done." With that, Kronos lashed out, disarming Methos in his weakened state and sending him to his knees in the sand. Methos hissed as he felt Kronos' blade rest against his neck and he cursed the antagonist. Something about Kronos struck unnaturally deep fear into Methos, the war paint and sword stirring memories that were buried deep far within himself, beyond retrieving. But their essence lived. Kronos continued his torment. 

"I've seen you in that village before. They abandoned you after you had saved their homes with cunning and a battle plan worthy of a king. I've seen the look of hatred you gave them when they found out what you were, and the longing for retribution in your eyes. And I know a true warrior when I see one." Kronos remained still, his sword unmoving. 

"If you're going to kill me, get on with it. I'd rather return to the carrion birds than listen to your threats." 

"Then I offer you these choices: lose your head, or join me and my brothers. I need someone to plan my raids. You want revenge. With us, you shall have it. That, and much, much more. Together we will be the terror of the entire continent. No one will ever make you beg again, Methos. _You_ will be the one they fear." 

Methos closed his eyes against the scorching sun, felt the blade still at his neck. He looked up at Kronos and slowly smiled, then burst out laughing. Kronos joined him, removing his spiked sword and offering Methos a hand up from the sand. Kronos took a white cowl from his saddlebag and tossed it to Methos. The hood blocked out the worst of the sun's fierce rays. 

"Ride with me, brother. We have much to talk about." Kronos climbed onto his horse, hauling Methos up behind him. He offered the waterskin to his new colleague. Methos abruptly pulled the hood back, pouring the water over his head and letting it run down his face. They were still laughing as they rode back to Kronos' camp . . . 

* * *

Methos woke slowly, the dream fading as he found himself lying in a bed beneath soft blankets. The skull-cracking headache had reduced itself to a barely tolerable level, but he still felt exhausted and overheated. Perhaps the bed was an illusion, and he was still buried beneath the ash of Pompeii . . . 

_Where am I?_ Methos closed his eyes again, heard somebody move towards him. Wherever he was, his instincts told him he was safe. No volcano then. 

"Adam?" Caitlin's voice. Something cool rested against his skin, and the unnatural fire coursing through him was momentarily relieved. 

"What . . . what happened?" Thirst made his dry throat ache. 

"I was hoping you could tell me. You passed out as soon as we came in." Cait ran a cold, damp towel across his face again. "And you're burning up." 

"What?" How could he be sick? And if he was, how had a Quickening caused it, of all things? 

"I tried calling Mac and Joe for help. Nobody was home so I left messages." 

"They went to--" Methos flinched as the migraine flared. 

"Don't worry about it." Caitlin went out to the kitchen and brought him something to drink. "Here. You look like you could use this." 

Methos accepted the juice gratefully, drinking it all without stopping. 

"How long have I been here?" Methos shifted the blankets closer, feeling chilled. 

"About three hours." 

The old Immortal sank back into the pillows, letting out a slow sigh as his mind went over the recent battle. Caitlin continued her ministrations, her face concerned. 

"I really shouldn't stay; I'm putting you in danger." Methos tried to leave the warm cocoon of blankets but dizziness overcame him immediately. Caitlin stopped his attempt at departing, gently pushing him back into the bed. 

"I've got my klaive. Nobody's going to get in here without a fight. And you really do need to rest." 

Methos couldn't argue with her on that point. Burrowing further into the bed, he buried his face in the pillows as Cait tucked the blankets in closer around him. He was asleep in minutes. Caitlin pulled up a nearby chair and settled into it, her cat Tambertail miaowing as he nestled into her lap. Absently petting her furry companion, Cait watched over the sleeping form in her bed. 

Methos had been one of the first teachers--and real friends--Caitlin had ever had, and he had been with her when she had risen from her first death, mere months ago. The thought of anything permanently hurting him sent fear knotting itself through her. Calling a doctor or going to a hospital was out of the question. They would have Adam locked away to be studied. Or worse. 

It was a long night. Methos fell into a restless sleep, occasionally whispering in bits of an old language that Caitlin didn't even recognize. Cait herself slept little, waking at a moment's notice if Methos needed anything. The older Immortal drifted from fitful resting to periods of half-lucidity, lost in delirium. Caitlin remained by Methos' side during the night, soothing his sweat-dampened face with cool water, and when his fever finally broke soon after dawn she returned to the chair by the window and slept herself. 

* * *

Methos woke to find the morning sun streaming through the bedroom window. Caitlin was asleep in a chair by the bedside, purring cat nestled on her lap and blade within easy reach. Methos sat up slowly, yawning and running a hand through his hair. His fever seemed to be gone, at least for the moment, and the headache had disappeared as well. 

_Must've been a freak reaction. Immortal poison ivy._

Methos reluctantly pulled himself from his warm nest, sitting on the edge of the bed. Caitlin's Immortal presence was unnaturally strong in his mind, startlingly clear. Methos suddenly felt it tugging at him, as though daring him to take it. All he had to do was pick up his blade . . . The ancient Immortal slowly reached out to his coat lying on the floor, automatically going for the hidden weapon-- 

Jerking his hand back, Methos stared at it in fascinated horror. 

_What . . . ?!??_

Shock ran through him and he broke out in a nervous sweat. Why had he just had thoughts about attacking Caitlin? Hurriedly, Methos shoved on his clothing. He suddenly wanted to bolt, and fast. Moments later he was at the front door and had it open when Cait walked into the living room, rubbing sleep from her face. 

"Adam? Where are you going?" She came over and took Methos by the arm, turning him away from the door. No fever, and he wasn't chilled. Reluctantly, Caitlin let go of her friend. The same destructive urge hit Methos again and renewed his desire to leave. 

"I--I can't stay. I'm sorry--" Methos closed his eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the subliminal force prodding him to draw his sword again. Instead, he took Caitlin's hand. 

"Thank you for helping me, Cait. I'll get in touch later." Methos backed out the door and left, heading away from campus at a fast walk that was almost a run. 

"Adam, _wait_!" Caitlin jammed her feet into slippers and followed him to the end of her block, but when she turned the corner the other Immortal was gone, lost in the morning crush of university students. Cait slammed her palm against the wall of the shop she was standing next to. 

_Now what??_

* * *

Methos had gotten back into his car and driven to the other side of town, putting as much distance between himself and his friends as possible. Whatever had happened to him, he had to figure it out on his own. Asking anyone--especially another Immortal--for help would probably get them killed, and himself as well. 

After driving around town, unable to think clearly, Methos decided to head back to his own house, feeling weary. He stopped at a small diner on his way, hoping that a short break would help ease the jumble of thoughts in his mind. Going inside, Methos sat down at the counter and stared dully at the menu, not bothering to read it. Staying out of Seacouver for a while seemed like the best thing to do. 

"Can I get you something?" 

Methos nearly jumped from his seat, hazel eyes wide in surprise. A young waitress was patiently waiting for his response. 

"Um, actually, I can't decide on anything." It was true, for the most part. Food was the last thing on Methos' mind, even though he was hungry. He'd slept well through breakfast. 

"Well, you definitely don't need anything with caffeine in it." 

Methos smiled a little, going along with the joke for appearances' sake. Unwanted attention in his current condition was something he wanted to avoid; all the more reason to head home and make plans after he'd eaten. The waitress returned shortly with a large vanilla milkshake, complete with enormous scoops of ice cream, whipped cream and a cherry. 

"Try this. Ice cream can work wonders for a bad day." 

_If only the problems of Immortals could be solved so easily._ Methos readily accepted the treat and began eating, concentrating on the taste of the dessert as he tried unsuccessfully to forget about the aftermath of the odd Quickening. He was almost finished with the milkshake when the buzz of another Immortal hit him. 

This time it was even more clarified than Caitlin's. Looking down along the counter, Methos saw what appeared to be a man in his mid-forties buying something. The strange Immortal glanced in Methos' direction for a moment, then continued his business. Methos suddenly stopped drinking the remains of his shake as the headache returned. He rubbed his temples, waited for the sensation to ebb but it didn't. 

_I should've stayed at Caitlin's,_ Methos thought. 

"Man, those ice cream headaches can be bad sometimes." 

"The worst." Methos didn't bother looking over at the teenager seated near him. He glanced at the Immortal, who was on his way out the door. Paying for the shake, Methos walked out after the man, not bothering with a tip. The new Immortal finally slowed his walk, stopped by his car and turned to face Methos. 

"Something I can do for you?" 

Methos hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to get into his own car and go home. But the other man's presence was calling to him like a crystalline siren, luring him into a battle neither of them wanted. Every survival mechanism Methos had built up over the past fifty centuries was crying out to him to simply leave. But he didn't move. 

_No. I will--not--do this._ Methos backed away a few steps, but the allure of the Quickening was pulling him in, in a way it never had before in his long life. 

"I . . . want to fight you." _No, I don't! I don't want it at all!_

The other Immortal sighed. 

"Have it your way, pal." He slammed his car door shut. "There's an alley over on the next block." 

Once there, the ages old joining of blades began, and soon afterwards a moderately sized electrical disturbance broke the late morning quiet. 

* * *

Methos allowed the final traces of the energy release to burn out as he sat hidden behind a pile of refuse in the alley. He felt strangely energized; senses heightened, heart racing. Breathing deeply, Methos waited for his pulse to slow before heading back to his car and finishing the journey home. Once there, the Immortal collapsed on the couch, shutting his eyes against the relentless headache. 

The Quickening Methos just taken had felt radically different, almost as if he could physically taste the other fighter's essence. The sensation wouldn't leave him. It was like drinking a finely aged wine. He needed--no, _wanted_ \--another. 

_No. Live, grow stronger, and fight another day. Survive! Nothing is more important than that!_ Methos repeated the phrase to himself over and over, using it as a mantra. But the faint, slowly building tug was still there, teasing him. Sliding into his consciousness like a sentient fog. 

The desire to fight again became too strong. Gliding off of the couch, Methos went over to the front door and in passing glanced at his answering machine. There were five messages, all from Caitlin, asking him to call her, to spend the day at her place until they could figure out what was happening. Methos picked up the phone, wanting nothing more than to talk to her again--or even Mac; the Highlander was always willing to help--and pretend the past few hours had been a bad dream. Methos started punching in numbers when the lure flared anew. He put the phone back, swaying a little and catching himself against the wall as vertigo tried to claim him. 

_Just one more . . ._ Methos stepped outside, the weight of the Ivanhoe reassuring as the door closed. 

As soon as he had left his doorstep the phone rang. 

* * *

"He's still not home." Caitlin slammed the receiver down in frustration. "I should've done something! Tied him up, knocked him out, anything!" She, Joe Dawson, and Duncan were sitting in the Watcher's tavern. Purely by chance, the blues man had been called back into town for Watcher business, and had immediately contacted Cait after hearing her news. 

"It's not your fault he left, Caitlin. From what you told us Adam isn't exactly himself right now. If he doesn't want to be found, trust me, even _we_ would have a hard time tracking him down. I've got every available Watcher in a hundred-mile radius on the lookout for him," Joe said. 

Duncan looked at him sharply for a moment. 

"Relax, Mac. I've got our best people looking for _Adam._ " Joe placed just enough emphasis on Methos' alias to assure Duncan that their friend's true identity was safe. 

"But what could've done this?" Duncan paced along the bar. He looked at Caitlin. 

"Did Adam say anything about who he was fighting when all of this started?" 

"No. But one of the guy's friends came back wanting another chance. I scared him off." 

"What did he look like?" Joe got his portable computer running, the Watcher database for North America loading up. 

"Short dark hair, leather jacket, torn-up jeans. He was using his friend's sword, a saber of some kind." 

Joe typed in three different passwords on the uploaded site, then entered the information Caitlin had given him, cross-referencing various items. After a few minutes, the Watcher sat back and sighed. 

"Oh, boy." Joe rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. 

"What?" Duncan didn't like the angle things were taking. 

Joe turned the laptop around to show Mac and Caitlin what he'd found. 

"The saber belonged to an Immortal currently known as 'Nails.' He's only a little over a century old but he picked up the Game pretty fast. Usually hangs around with at least three or four other Immortal friends." The screen showed an old-fashioned tintype picture of a man who looked slightly older than Richie, with a dark scowl on his face. He held the blade in question; three people surrounded him. They were standing in what looked like a town from the early days of the old American West. 

"That's the sword. And that's the guy who tried to attack Adam the second time." Caitlin pointed out the Immortal she'd described before. 

"Which means that our wayward friend took Nails' head." Joe looked grim. 

Duncan felt a cold pit forming inside. "And?" he prompted. 

"It's never been proven, but the most recent Watcher assigned to this guy thought that he may have been addicted to Quickenings." Joe looked at his friends. 

"Addicted?" Caitlin considered the idea. Duncan went over to the bar and poured himself a scotch. 

"I know it sounds crazy, but it would at least partially explain what Caitlin's told us." Joe looked over at Duncan. 

"But it doesn't explain the fever and headaches." Caitlin traced patterns left on the table from her glass of water as she thought. "And his aura--whatever you call it when we sense each other--felt strange. Like it was Immortal but . . . hurting." 

Joe stared at the entry on his computer, thinking. All they could do now was wait for one of the other Watchers to pick up a lead on Methos' whereabouts. And that could take days. Weeks, even. Joe closed his laptop and sighed, sitting back to consider options. 

"I'll try to do some cross referencing, and assign a few extra people to keep an eye out. If Adam's after Quickenings there'll be a trail eventually. That should at least point us in the right direction." 

Duncan paced beside the bar for a moment, then stopped. He strode over to the phone, a plan rapidly forming in his mind. 

"Who are you calling?" Joe stood up and went over to the bar in search of refills. 

"An old friend who owes me some favors." 

* * *

Energy crackled as lightning hurled its way from the sky. Wind blew dirt and bits of grass through the air. Rain poured from the clouds in thick, heavy sheets. Standing in the middle of an open field, facing into the maelstrom, Methos reached out for the power, absorbing the energy of yet another Quickening. It was his eighth in less than three days and this time it hurt badly. The lightning was hot iron pikes, each one tearing through him. The roar of both the wind and his own scream was the call of a great beast, a dragon issuing a challenge. But the influx of power made it all fade to the background, however briefly. 

_This is what it truly feels like to be Immortal!_

Methos laughed but there was no humor in it, only sheer pleasure that bordered on hysteria. What was it Kronos had said? Don't fight it, feel it. Yes! He had forgotten what the unparalleled rapture of the Quickening could be like. If this was what the fabled Prize could offer, he'd gladly accept it after all. 

" . . . been hiding long enough." Methos staggered to his feet only to fall back down as consciousness threatened to leave him. He shored up his will, forcing the pain to the back of his mind before driving back to his hotel room. Once there the Immortal opened up his own portable computer, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and drinking most of it while he waited for the screen display to appear. 

Once everything had neatly arranged itself on the monitor, Methos sat and began scanning the Watcher database using passwords he wasn't supposed to know anymore. In the right places, they still worked. Skimming through the data, avoiding built-in intrusion traps, Methos picked out a name here, another there, and began compiling a list. He stopped at a particular entry and smiled darkly. A few clicks of the mouse, a little networking among files and he had the information he needed. He moved on to another, then another after that. Soon his list of Immortals was complete and a few choice people memorized. 

Minutes later he was packed and ready to find Amanda, the song of the hunt driving him onward. 

* * *

Duncan paced the floor of his loft, restless and worried. Three days had passed since the meeting at Joe's, and no one had reported anything in about Methos. He could be anywhere in the world with the resourcefulness he had. Anywhere in the world, lying unconscious and waiting for another Immortal to walk by with a sword-- 

MacLeod banished the thought before it formed. They would find Methos and bring him home no matter how long it took. The Highlander stared out at the cold spring rain driving down the windows, thoughts echoed on his face. 

"We'll find him, Mac." 

Greg Powers, Immortal physician, was sitting on the edge of MacLeod's neatly made bed, heavy boots resting on the floor. Five years ago he himself had been at the edge of insanity, unable to find anything worthwhile in Immortality any longer. Duncan had rescued him from his dark life and given him a second chance. Greg accepted, gradually melding back into his former profession of doctor. So when the Highlander had called and told him about an Immortal friend who needed their help, he had immediately agreed to fly out to Seacouver. 

"Once we _do_ find Adam, how will we know _how_ to help him?" Joe looked up from where he was reading files on his computer. 

"From what you've all told me, it sounds like some kind of reaction, possibly an allergy." Greg walked over to a window, watching traffic. "I can't do anything to help without at least looking at him." 

"This is the first time something like this has happened," Duncan said bitterly. _And "first times" seem to be involving me and my friends more and more often._ The Highlander sat down heavily into a chair, feeling his real age. 

_Is there a reason why Methos and myself always get caught up in things like this? Prophecies. Betrayals. Old enemies resurfacing. What's next?!_

"There's something familiar about this, though . . . something that happened a few years back." Greg returned to the bed, sifting through memories. 

"Tell us." MacLeod fought a dark thread of apprehensive dread. 

"I was taking a walk in the park near my new apartment in Chicago one night, enjoying the weather. Halfway back I felt another Immortal and this guy runs out of the trees. I knew something was wrong by how panicked he looked--figured he was new to the Game. Then I touched him . . . felt like he'd been standing near a blast furnace, and he was sweating even though it was pretty cool outside. Before I could even ask any questions he pulled away from me and tore off down another path." Greg sighed. 

"After I got out of the park I went back home and did some thinking. I mean, a sick Immortal? At the time I was afraid it was the beginning of a plague or maybe the Gathering, but after doing some research I realized that it was an isolated case." Greg looked at Duncan. "I never thought it would happen--could happen--a second time. That it was even _possible_." 

For the next hour or so they sat mostly in silence, thinking, discussing solutions that ended in circles. The waiting was making Duncan edgy and he began pacing again as insistent beeping came from Joe's computer. The Watcher's head instantly snapped up from where he'd been writing. 

"What's that?" Duncan came over. 

"Adam's broken the password codes . . ." Joe let out a resigned sigh and stared at the screen. 

"Can you figure out which files he went through?" Duncan studied the computer. 

"Yeah. It's going to take a few minutes." Joe pulled several menus down and hooked his computer up to MacLeod's printer. Soon a small list of names was compiled. Duncan pulled the paper before it had a chance to hit the tray. Rapidly he read the names off in his head: Amanda. Marcus Constantine. Ceirdwyn. And a few others he'd never heard of. Mac felt ice flowing up his spine. 

"He's going after everyone who's over a thousand years old. Can you find out where all of these people are? They have to be warned." 

Joe shook his head. 

"I can't. Their files have been blocked, and that'll take days to fix. The most recently accessed file is the only one I can retrieve." Joe hesitated, but only for a second. He'd stepped over the line dividing Immortals and Watchers long ago. And Adam was as much his friend as Mac's. Soon the file in question was onscreen. Amanda. 

"She's staying in a hotel around Bellingham," Joe said. 

Mac skimmed through the phone book and found the number. Picking up the phone once more, Duncan silently hoped that there was still time to warn her. 

* * *

He loved irony. It was his favorite emotion to play with. So it only felt fitting when Methos knocked loudly on Amanda's hotel room door at four in the morning. 

"Oh, Amanda! Open up, I know you're in there!" Methos paused, but not long. "Come on, this is important!" He raised a fist to knock again when the door was thrown open. Amanda stood in front of him, sword in hand and wearing a nightgown that left little to the imagination. She glared at Methos, intending to shout up a storm, but stopped when she got a good look at him. 

"You look like hell." 

"Well, _thank_ you." 

"Are you always this congenial in the morning?" 

"Can I come in?" 

Amanda stepped back into the room and tossed her blade onto the rumpled bed. 

"Why did you drag yourself all way out here in the middle of the night? I would've been back in Seacouver by tomorrow." She turned to the small bar in the room and poured a glass of wine for her guest. Methos closed the door. The power aura surrounding Amanda was almost unbearable and he was having a difficult time holding himself back from simply attacking her outright. 

"If you came here to deliver a message from Duncan don't bother; I didn't steal those jewels and that accident with the loft elevator wasn't my fault--" Amanda abruptly stopped as something cold and sharp rested against her neck. She slowly put the glass of wine onto a table. 

" _Okay_ , this isn't about the jewels. Or the elevator." 

"Bright girl." Methos allowed her to turn around but his blade stayed where it was. 

Amanda looked at him, frantically trying to figure out what she could say or do as she glanced from Methos to his blade and back again. 

"Why?" 

"Just because." Methos shook his head at the sight of Amanda's sword across the room. 

"Didn't Rebecca teach you how _stupid_ it is to turn your back on your weapon? And I thought MacLeod was the one who needed the survival lesson." 

"This _really_ isn't funny, Methos." Amanda started to back away but Methos kept up. He tilted his head slightly to one side, eyes boring into her, a small smile of anticipation on his face, enjoying the fear in Amanda's eyes. 

The phone rang, startling both of them. Amanda used the opportunity to roll out of the sword's path, ducking as Methos swung but the older Immortal recovered quickly, reaching out to grasp her shoulder. Methos pulled Amanda close, raised his blade-- 

And froze in place as MacLeod's voice played on the answering machine: 

"Amanda, this is Mac. I can't go into details here but Methos is probably on his way over and it would be a good idea if you weren't there when he is. Call me as soon as you can!" Click. 

Methos looked at his opponent with the dark expression gone, replaced by a fear that bordered on panic. He backed away from Amanda so quickly that he hit the door, fumbling for the knob without turning around. The shock of nearly being beheaded left Amanda as she saw her friend transformed from attacker to victim. 

"Methos, what the hell is going on?" 

He began to speak, but instead successfully opened the door and ran. Amanda sprinted after him down the hallway. It was a dead end, with a large window overlooking the view five stories below. Without hesitating, Methos charged the plate glass, covering his head and using momentum to fall through. Amanda ran over to the broken window, looking down into a large bin full of cardboard and packing material far below. Methos lay in it, healing from the impact. Darting back to her room, Amanda punched in Duncan's number. He answered on the second ring. 

"MacLeod, something is seriously messed up with our little friend." Amanda took a swallow of wine as she sat down. 

"Amanda? He's there? Don't let him leave!" 

"Too late. What's going on?" 

"Long story." Mac gave her a brief outline of the situation. "What's the address of your hotel?" 

Amanda gave it to him. 

"Stay there, Amanda. It's safer. We're going after Adam." 

"I can take care of myself Duncan." 

"It's not that. He's already attacked you once. Showing up a second time might set him off again." 

She sighed. Sometimes Mac could be the biggest mother hen . . . 

"Okay, okay, I'll stay here. I hope you find him because he looks pretty bad." 

"We will. Watch yourself, all right?" The line clicked. 

Amanda returned to her bed, but sleep eluded her for the rest of the night. 

* * *

Methos sat against a concrete wall in a dilapidated warehouse, wanting nothing more than to be back at Joe's and sharing a beer with his friends. He had been in the same spot for hours, knees pulled up to his chest and head resting on folded arms as he fought the urge to destroy. His only companions were his Ivanhoe and the endlessly pounding headache. Each new Quickening brought the fever back, lingering longer each time until it was nearly constant. A cloak of fire that seeped into Methos' entire body, greedily draining his strength. Attacking Amanda had taken more out of him than he'd realized. Methos rested against the cool cement, remembering the feel of Caitlin's gentle hands on his face. He hoped Duncan could keep her safe. 

_I don't think you're used to pain, brother . . ._ Kronos' words echoed in his head. _Have you gone soft?_ And then his own: _Don't you understand? I'm not like that anymore . . . I--I've changed . . ._

"No . . . " Methos turned from the hated thoughts. He felt himself slipping away again, his fragile hold on Adam Pierson doing a balancing act that was too close to falling for his own comfort. Ever since his thirst for Quickenings had started he'd felt closer to the terror he'd once been, all those centuries ago. Centuries afterwards spent lost and confused as he'd tried to find himself again. And here he was. Lost once more. 

Methos suddenly wondered what would happen when--if--MacLeod and Caitlin eventually found him. What would he do? Fight them as well, most likely. Mac could take him on, but Caitlin . . . That thought was too much for Methos to contemplate and he curled up on the ground, losing what little he'd been able to eat that day. Feeling wretched, the Immortal tried to calm himself as muscles cramped against the emptiness in his stomach. He fell back against the wall in a cold sweat. 

_So tired . . ._

"Having a rough time of it, I see." 

Methos turned to see Kronos--what looked like Kronos--sitting nearby, icy eyes staring at him as he idly swung a length of chain in one hand. 

"Don't look so surprised, brother. I'll always be part of you." Kronos grinned triumphantly. "I told you that you were still the same, after all this time. Aren't you enjoying that old feeling of power again?" 

"No. . . I don't want any of it!" 

"Where's the _fire_? The spark that got us all going each day? Really, Methos, I'm disappointed." Kronos stood up, pacing. "You know, I've been wondering--what do you think MacLeod would do if he saw what you've been up to? And after you just gained back his trust too. Pity." Kronos stopped walking and crouched beside his former ally. His smug smile fell into place, a feral grin. Methos thought he was going to be sick all over again. 

"And that new friend of yours--Caitlin, was it?--what would _she_ think?" Kronos laughed, eagerly continuing his barrage. His whisper was poison: "Do you think she would return the love you feel for her?" 

Methos swung a fist out at Kronos, a solid blow to the jaw. But his strength had been leached away during his forced battles and Kronos stepped back easily, laughing again as Methos overextended and fell forward. 

"Touched a nerve, have I? My poor brother--you never could find yourself again, could you?" The smile disappeared; cold blue eyes bore themselves into Methos' hazel ones. 

"Remember that one village we went through in the early days? It was your first battle as a Horseman. We never would've gotten as far as we did without your plans." Kronos moved closer, enjoying Methos' torment. "You were the most ambitious, fearless warrior I'd ever seen. Taking whatever you wanted, and letting your sword do the rest. No conscience, no hesitation . . . no regrets!" 

Anger smoldered in the older Immortal as the Ivanhoe found its way into Methos' hand. But he could only manage a slow, clumsy swing that Kronos sidestepped like a cat-- 

A shout cut the air and a figure stumbled backwards. Methos blinked, staring at what appeared to be a man attempting to rob him. The pickpocket fled at the sight of the broadsword. 

It wasn't Kronos. 

_What the hell??_

Shivering against an abrupt chill, Methos searched around in his coat pockets with shaking hands for his cellular phone and punched in a familiar number. A familiar voice answered. 

The older Immortal swallowed nervously before responding. 

". . . Mac?" 

"Where are you?!" 

"I don't know, really. I headed north . . . I think I'm just south of Bellingham. In a warehouse close to a hotel . . ." 

"Stay there--we're coming to get you." 

"Don't. I can't control what's happening to me. Keep yourself safe. You can start training Caitlin on swords--she's a quick learner." 

"Methos, listen to me. We've found something that might help you." 

Methos hesitated, momentarily swimming through the semi-conscious haze he'd fallen into. He wanted to escape so badly . . . the fiery fog parted long enough for Methos to return to the conversation. Duncan was saying something: 

"Stay put; we'll find you. Don't leave town. Lock yourself in a room if you have to." 

_Already tried that, Mac. The door didn't last long._ "I can't . . . can't promise anything . . ." 

"Just hang in there--we're on our way. _We'll find you_." The Highlander signed off. 

Methos put his cellular away and moved farther back into the mass of crates and boxes littering the empty warehouse. He didn't want to face what he knew would happen once Mac and everyone else arrived. Sagging against the cold cement, the oldest Immortal pulled his coat around himself and tried to sleep. 

The dragon roared. The serpent twisted. Methos waited. 

* * *

"How will we know where Adam is? There's a million little towns surrounding Bellingham." Caitlin looked out the windows of the Thunderbird. 

"We can use Amanda's hotel address to give us a start. I think I know where he's trying to go." Duncan stared ahead at the road, eyes hidden beneath his sunglasses. _My cabin, most likely. Holy ground._

Mac, Cait, and Greg had piled into the car minutes after Methos had called. The spotty trail of battles the older Immortal had left led in a northern direction, almost straight for the little secluded island MacLeod had built a home on. They drove along in silence for most of the way, Caitlin gazing out at the passing landscape, lost in thought while Greg sat in the back, a pile of notes on his lap. Duncan remained pensive and brooding as he fought to hide the feeling of dread inside him. Too many aftershocks were following both himself and Methos after the earth-shaking event they had shared over a year ago in Bordeaux. 

As they drove, Greg pulled out a small case and opened it, checking the contents. Caitlin turned to look from the front of the car and felt cold. 

"You're going to _shoot_ him!?" 

"It's only a tranquilizer gun," Greg explained. "If your friend gets . . . out of control . . . we need to stop him until we can take him somewhere safe." He closed the case. Caitlin tore her gaze from the would-be weapon and refused to look at it again. 

Three hours later they had stopped in a small city only a few miles from Bellingham for a short rest and food. The sky was overcast and the sun fought to burn through the chill of early spring. As they neared the hotel's location, MacLeod slowed the Thunderbird. The warehouse Methos had mentioned came into view and seconds later the buzz of presence was felt by all. 

"That must be Adam." MacLeod got out of the car and stood, centering the direction of the sensation. Yes, there it was. Inside the building. 

"I'm going after him alone first. Both of you stay here. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes come after me." 

"He could be delirious, Mac. Be careful." Greg looked at the warehouse. "What if he won't come back with you? Or can't?" 

"He will." Duncan walked off. 

* * *

Once in the warehouse, the overcast weather made the dim interior even more haunting and dangerous. It was similar to the building that Connor and Duncan had used as a sparring ground once, but larger and full of heavily shadowed areas. And nobody was playing games today. Towers of dusty crates and forgotten boxes were scattered around the empty expanse of sandy, dirt-packed floor. Mac stepped out into the central area of the place, using what little sunlight came through to scan the darker shadows that mixed with streams of pale luminescence. It was far too quiet. 

"Methos?" Duncan stopped, turning around as he heard a faint scuffling noise. 

The attack came before MacLeod could react. A battle cry that made him jump. A brief flash of silver, and a stinging line was sliced across his face and part of his chest, tearing through his shirt. Duncan stumbled backwards swiftly, pulling out his blade. He'd been hoping it wouldn't come to this. 

"What's wrong, Highlander? Can't you see me?" A low chuckle came from the shadows. "I can see _you_!" Another flare of metal, biting deeper. 

"Adam, this isn't you! Tell me what happened!" Mac circled the lit area warily, hissing as the new cut healed. Loudly echoing footsteps came from behind him. Duncan turned, katana held up reluctantly. Methos stepped into view, and MacLeod couldn't hide a look of surprise. Instead of the lean, cunning friend he knew, Methos resembled a wounded animal hiding in the shadows. The ancient Immortal was noticeably thinner. His eyes glittered strangely in the diffused light, and as he came closer Duncan could see that his face was flushed. The feel of the older man's presence was like pinpricks along Mac's nerves, static electricity held at bay. Methos held out his broadsword and it wavered just slightly. 

"Don't be a fool, MacLeod. Go home and take the others with you. You don't . . . don't know what this is like . . ." 

"Don't I? Remember the dark Quickening? You helped me out of that hell. Let me help you out of this one." 

Methos laughed, and Duncan could hear fear behind the feigned bravado. 

"Hell, Mac? D'you know how it feels to be drawn to another's power, taking it again and again until you're so damn tired you just want to drop? And then having it force you to keep _going_?" Methos lashed out with a series of attacks that Mac had never seen him use. The Highlander felt a new cut burn on one side as he misjudged a block. Methos had indeed been holding back in his knowledge of swordfighting. He hadn't been able to fake being out of practice, but he'd more than made up for lost time during the last year. Ancient techniques blended with those picked up over recent centuries, and Duncan had to constantly shift his strategy. 

"What's wrong, the almighty Duncan MacLeod can't solve this little problem?" 

Mac stopped, pushing loose hair out of his face. They stood staring at one another, breathing hard. The sharp shadows tangling with the light made Methos stand out in stark relief, giving him the appearance of a wraith. 

"Don't give in to it. You're stronger than this!" Duncan shouted. They traded blows repeatedly. Methos looked more than ready to stop but kept going. Seeing his friend reduced to such a state cut Mac to the bone far deeper than the Ivanhoe was. For an instant, Methos shook himself out of his living nightmare, but then a dark, menacing smile played over his face. Duncan's Quickening was lapping at his Immortal senses. 

"The scout leader must be losing his touch!" Methos scored another hit across Duncan's side. " _Now_ who's out of practice?" The ancient Immortal forced Mac into a narrow corridor formed by stacks of crates, advancing slowly as he kept his eyes on his quarry. Duncan pretended to looked trapped, slowly luring Methos back out into the open area. 

"I know what true power is again. Nobody will ever think me a fool anymore." Methos circled MacLeod, blade held out parallel to the ground. "So how am I doing for a 'mild-mannered Watcher' now?" He looked like a snake readying itself to strike. 

"You were never a fool. I've considered you a friend since the day we met." Mac moved slowly as well, not wanting to break the thread of rationality he'd managed to throw out to Methos. "You don't have to fight me." Duncan tried to remember the gentle persuasive words that Sean Burns had left him with, but he didn't have the same gift of subliminal persuasion his friend had possessed. He would have to rely on his own empathy and feelings this time. 

"It's too strong!" Methos lurched back, wiping sweat from his face and swaying a little. His voice was quavering. "There's no way to stop it. None. If you take my Quickening you'll suffer the same!" He backed against a steel beam for support, appearing to step out of the battle as he nearly let the Ivanhoe fall. Mac lowered his katana and carefully walked closer to Methos, offering an outstretched hand. Just then the familiar streak of Immortal presence hit them both, snapping the moment of contact. Duncan cursed. Methos growled as the buzz ripped through him and launched himself at his friend, bronze blade seeking its target. Duncan's eyes went wide with pain-filled shock as he suddenly found three feet of metal buried in his side. Everything went mercifully dark as he fell to the ground. 

Caitlin and Greg came running into the warehouse in time to see Methos standing over MacLeod's immobile body, eyes closed, shaking, blade held in both hands above Duncan's neck. Greg readied the dart gun, aiming but not firing. 

"Adam, don't! Please stop!" Cait looked at her friend, standing less than twenty feet away. Methos blinked, the sound of Cait's voice shocking him back to reality. 

"Caitlin?" He looked down at Duncan, then out at Cait, and finally at the weapon in his hands. Tension held everyone in place for what felt like an eternity. Slowly Methos lowered his sword, staggering and backing away from MacLeod. Cait went to his side-- 

In a flash of bright metal the Ivanhoe snapped upwards and was held against Caitlin's neck. She froze with a gasp. The blade was just barely touching her skin. Methos moved behind Cait, his free arm wrapping around her body, preventing escape. Duncan returned to life with a start, coughing, to see Caitlin and Methos locked together, her eyes closed. The Highlander tried to find words but couldn't. He didn't want to startle Methos into any sudden reactions. Swallowing nervously, MacLeod stayed still, healing while he tried to think of a plan, any plan. Caitlin dared to speak when she saw Greg attempting to fire. 

"No!" But the Highlander's plea came too late; a dart tore through the air, imbedding itself in Methos' coat collar but missing his body. Methos' grip on both Caitlin and his sword tightened. 

"Greg, _don't!_ Let me talk to him first!" Caitlin tried to organize her thoughts. "Adam . . . don't let this--whatever it is--get to you. This isn't who you are. Come back to us." 

Methos listened to her voice, hearing his own scream inside of him, wanting to stop but unable to. He was shaking with the effort of not giving in. The broadsword bit slightly deeper to cut flesh, just enough to make a tiny, thin line that flared red. Methos stared at the Ivanhoe's bite as though hypnotized, hazel eyes flashing as he leaned close to kiss the bleeding wound. Caitlin remained still, but Methos could feel her fear. 

"I can't stop. . ." Methos laughed a little, near panic. "It's so strong. . ." He walked around Caitlin to face her, his eyes echoing pain. Methos' piercing gaze never left the thin crimson line on her neck. 

"Remember what you told me once?" Caitlin looked at Methos, cool gray eyes centered on his frantic hazel ones. "You said that I was stronger than I knew. And that you believed in me." Caitlin paused, closing her eyes as she took a deep breath and felt the sword bite just a bit further. "I believe in you, Adam. You're one of the bravest people I know. Don't let this beat you. Not after all this time. . ." 

Methos tried to still his shaking hands, Caitlin's words registering through the wild chaos in his fevered mind. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he stepped back, a frustrated cry escaping him as he felt the fear give way to complete and utter exhaustion. The broadsword moved away from Caitlin, sliding out of Methos' hand, the weapon clattering loudly in the empty expanse as the Immortal cursed and started to fall. Cait turned, catching him before he could hit the ground. Almost in slow motion, Methos reached out to touch the now healed spot where his broadsword had cut her, and turned away, quietly sobbing as Caitlin cradled him, rubbing a hand along his shoulders and murmuring reassuring words. 

"It's okay . . ." Cait gathered Methos close, comforting him the way he'd done for her the day she'd become Immortal. Gradually the shaking eased, and Methos lay with his head on Caitlin's lap, sliding into a cocoon of peace beneath gentle hands. 

"Help me," Methos whispered. 

"We will." Caitlin promised. "We will." 

* * *

Methos felt the faint stir of a breeze ruffling through his hair, and the scent of pine and fresh grasses filled the air. He allowed himself to come out of the deep sleep he'd been in, blinking as his eyes focused on an oakwood ceiling. 

_The second strange place I've found myself in this week._

He looked around carefully, noting several pieces of hand-carved furniture, assorted pictures and artifacts scattered here and there. Heavy, hand-hewn logs made up the walls. 

_Mac's island cabin,_ Methos realized. He started to sit up in bed when a tugging at his arm stopped him. Looking over at it, he saw some kind of intravenous line taped to the back of his hand, leading to a container of clear fluid hanging overhead. It was mildly irritating; his body kept attempting to heal the tiny puncture where the needle was inserted. The image sent a flicker of pain through Methos as it reminded him of his last days with Alexa. 

Methos lay back against the pillows, returning his gaze to the ceiling as he buried the bittersweet thoughts and took a few deep breaths of the fresh air. He felt too weak, too drained to do much else. Recent memories of the past few days returned with unwelcome clarity as Methos studied the knots in the ceiling. In his mind's eye a long-haired warrior with a painted face laughed back at him. Just then the door to the room opened, and Mac peeked in. 

"Welcome back." Duncan gave Methos one of his winning smiles but the older Immortal couldn't summon the energy to return it. 

_Always the understanding Highlander. Don't change, my friend._

"I suppose Amanda wants my head on a silver platter." Methos coughed a little as his sleep-roughened voice found its way back. 

"Gold, actually." Duncan's smile faded a little as Methos didn't react to the joke. 

"I won't even ask what Caitlin must think." Methos' voice filled with regret. "What I almost did . . ." 

Duncan sat at the foot of the bed. 

"Methos, this wasn't your fault . . ." 

"No, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with, does it?" The cynicism had returned to his voice. 

"No." 

They sat in silence for a minute, then Methos spoke again. 

"So what exactly happened to me?" 

Duncan went over everything that had transpired since they'd come to the cabin a little over two days ago. 

"From what Greg could tell, you had a serious allergic reaction to that first Quickening you took. When we brought you here you were dehydrated and running a temperature of at least one-hundred and five." 

Methos sighed. No wonder he'd been feeling so lousy. He vaguely remembered being carried upstairs to the room he was now in, but everything else was a confusing morass in his mind. Duncan stood up and went back to the doorway. 

"Greg wants you to stay here for a few days so he can be sure you're really okay. We don't want a relapse of this hitting you." The Highlander looked at Methos, dark eyes concerned for his friend. "Feel like eating anything? You haven't had much over the past week." 

"Not yet. I just want to rest." 

Duncan turned to leave when Methos called him back. 

"Mac? About everything that happened, everything I said when I was attacking you . . ." 

Duncan just shook his head. 

"It's no big deal, Methos. Get some sleep." The Highlander left. 

The old Immortal's thoughts drifted from the battle with Nails to Caitlin's hospitality and finally to his present state. Everything was still jumbled in his mind, and Methos fell into a heavy sleep filled with chaotic dreams. Duncan returned to the door a few minutes later, intending to bring Methos something to read. He stopped at the sight of his sleeping friend and watched him for a minute. 

_Five thousand years, and he still has the will and fortitude to go on._ Mac laid the book he'd brought with him on the bedside table and left the room, amazed at the oldest Immortal. When Methos woke again the sun was a golden hue and the afternoon was nearly gone. A book and tray of food were sitting next to the bed with a steaming mug of tea that smelled good but looked horrid. 

_One of Darius' inventions, no doubt._ Methos was contemplating reaching for the tea when Caitlin came in. 

"About time you woke up," she teased, walking over to the bed and sitting beside him. Methos felt like burying himself beneath the blankets. 

"You've got that 'Let me hide' look on your face again. Hungry?" 

"A little. I could use some of whatever's on that plate." 

Caitlin helped him sit up and gave him the mug of tea. Methos cursed under his breath at the extreme weakness washing over him as he broke out in a sweat, resting heavily against Cait's supportive arm. Tasting the beverage, Methos made a face. It was definitely one of Darius' recipes. 

"Mac said it would help you feel better, despite the taste. And we both made the soup for you." 

Methos glanced at the bowl before him, a hearty homemade Scotch broth, from the looks of it. The tantalizing smell was making him realize just how hungry he was; how long _had_ it been since he'd last eaten? Methos sipped at the tea and tasted the soup, eating slowly. It was delicious and he managed to finish most of it. 

"Need anything else?" 

Methos pretended to think about the question when in actuality he was trying to control the raw emotions inside himself. Cait's loving attention had reawakened memories of happier times and the whole mess of the days previous had reminded him of the fanatic barbarian he'd once been. He desperately wanted to be alone but at the same time didn't want Caitlin to leave. 

"I've had enough for now, thanks." Methos looked up at her, then back down at the blankets. "I'm sorry, Cait. More than I can possibly say . . ." 

Caitlin noticed the underlying nervousness in his voice and shifted a little on the bed as Methos lay back down. 

"You don't have anything to apologize for," she said quietly. "It was that Quickening that started the whole thing." 

Methos closed his eyes. 

"I almost took MacLeod's head. And yours." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. 

"'Almost'. Not 'did'. That had to take a lot of courage, Adam. We're all here and in one piece. You're safe as far as the addiction. It's just going to take some time." Caitlin gave his hand a quick squeeze, then leaned over and gave Methos a light kiss on the forehead. 

"We'll be downstairs." Caitlin left the room and quietly closed the door. Methos pulled the bed covers up over his head and turned as much as the line in his arm would allow. 

_I need to go on a retreat again. Figure out what I want, what's happened, and what my feelings for Caitlin truly are . . ._

Methos slept. 

* * *

Early morning light filled the main room of the cabin. Breakfast was being served, but Methos was nowhere to be found. 

Three days had passed since their friend had awakened and the old Immortal had taken it upon himself to vanish into the woods alone. He said little whenever he would return to the house for rest or a shower and almost immediately would journey back to the forest, leaving no traces of his path. His Ivanhoe leaned against the stone fireplace, cleaned and shining in the light, otherwise left untouched. Since they were on holy ground there was no need to carry it. Each time Methos would leave, Caitlin would watch him from one of the tall windows by the door, lost in thoughts of her friend, one hand idly rubbing the bronze ring Methos had given her once. Each day he spent in the forest was another day Cait felt Methos slipping into a shell of isolation, a shell that she was afraid to invade. 

"He'll come back when he's ready," Greg told her. "As far as I can tell Adam's going to be fine physically. Emotionally he's still shaky, but that's understandable. Just give him time." 

Greg's words were comforting to hear but they couldn't fill the emptiness Methos left behind each time he went into the forest. 

The next morning Greg left for home, leaving Caitlin and Duncan talking about innocent things like the weather and life in Seacouver until MacLeod was ready to jump out of his chair. They both knew what was really being left unsaid, the subject of their thoughts somewhere in the forest. Methos' share of breakfast from that morning--toast, sausage, and oatmeal--remained on the table. One or two bites had been eaten from the oatmeal bowl but the toast and meat had been left untouched. Finishing his turkey and cheese, Mac pushed back his chair and pulled on a sweater. 

"I'm going to go talk to him. This has gone on long enough." 

"How will you find him? It's a big island." 

"I've got an idea about where he might've gone. I'll be back as soon as I can." 

"Take your time; if Adam doesn't want to come back yet don't force him to." Cait had returned to the window, absently brushing her fingertips along the faint scar on her neck. 

Duncan headed out into the brilliantly sunny afternoon, the breeze rustling the pine trees and shaking loose leaves from the oaks and birches. He walked down a hidden path through the forest that he had used hundreds of times over the years, the Highlander making his way along the soft earth floor, knowing by instinct where he was. Nearly fifteen minutes later Duncan came across a homemade lean-to fashioned from small saplings, leaves, and dried mud, complete with a quilt inside, book on a pillow of leaves, and a blackened circle of ground close by where a fire had been doused. The remains of a large fish were still in the ashes. At the edge of the small campsite a dead tree's trunk stood stripped, the silvery-gray wood dark in places with bloodstains. Hesitantly touching the tree, Duncan confirmed that some of the stains had been made recently, as though somebody had repeatedly punched the wood. 

_Probably hit it hard enough to break bone. What are you doing to yourself, Methos?_ Duncan continued onwards, reluctantly now, and before too long presence whispered to him. Walking through a stand of thinning trees by the water's edge, Mac found his friend. Methos was still too thin, but not as gaunt as he'd been days ago. The older Immortal was lying on his back on the thick grass, arms folded under his head as he stared up at the massive pines with unblinking eyes. Duncan stopped a few feet behind Methos, not wanting to intrude further. 

"If you've come to give me your 'Let-me-help-everything's-going-to-be-fine' speech don't bother; I'm working it out myself." There was no cynicism or anger in Methos' voice, merely a statement of fact. He remained staring at the slow-moving branches of the trees, lulled by the flowing boughs. 

"That's not what it looks like from my point of view." Duncan looked back in the direction of Methos' camp. 

"Try taking off the rose-colored glasses." The comment came out sounding harsher than Methos had intended. Duncan took the sting and pushed his way through it. _Okay, old man, we'll do this _your_ way._ The Highlander walked out from beneath the shade of trees and stepped into Methos' line of sight. 

"You've been out here for nearly four days, hardly say a word to either one of us, and when I come out here to talk to you, you hide under sarcasm. Why won't you let us help, Adam?" 

Methos was silent, then took a deep breath. 

"Do you know what it's like to have everything you've tried to forget come after you again? And then this happens." Methos stopped at that point, then continued after a moment, his voice nearly a whisper. 

"And now, after almost a year of acceptance, it's thrown right back at me. And everything I care about is being taken away a piece at a time just like it has before." Methos stuck out an arm, searching for something as he kept his eyes on the clouds. Finding a chunk of knotted wood, he took it in both hands and crushed the bark, holding onto the snapping knot so tightly that his knuckles turned white and spots of blood fell onto the grass. Tossing the smashed wood aside, Methos returned his attention to the sky and continued his story. 

"Did I ever tell you why I stopped fighting other Immortals for over two centuries? It was because after five thousand years of being torn between fear and power I had finally had enough. I had finally found some kind of peace with myself for at least a little while, as Immortals count time. So I decided to become a doctor, thought I could help people and forget the Game for a few decades, at least. I met Byron. He was the first friend I'd had in a long, long time. After a while we parted ways and I began slipping back into my role of researcher. And then Kalas showed up, and ever since then I've been forced to face everything I've tried to forget. Can you blame me for wanting to be alone? Do you want me to come back to the cabin and wake up in the middle of the night living out the nightmares I've been having? They're not pretty, MacLeod!" 

"But hurting yourself isn't going to help. And neither is ignoring your friends." Duncan sat down on a moss-covered stump and stared out at the water. "Caitlin really cares about you, you know. I'd say she even _loves_ you, Methos." 

"All the more reason for me to leave." 

"And go where? Back to Katmandu or Bora Bora?" 

"An extended vacation. I need to get my life back in order." 

Duncan tore a long blade of grass from the stump he was sitting on and began shredding it. 

"Do you love her?" 

Methos was silent for so long that Mac thought he'd fallen asleep. Then he stirred again. 

"That's one of the reasons I need some time away." 

It didn't really answer Duncan's question but he let it go. 

"You can stay here as long as you want." 

"Not here. Not this island, or even this continent. I need to go somewhere else. Someplace where I can't hurt you or Caitlin or even myself." 

"And were you planning on leaving without saying anything to us? Or even Joe?" 

"There's nothing left _to_ say." 

"You're kidding." 

Methos rolled up off the ground and stood, facing Mac with a mixture of anger and defiance as his voice rose. 

"What do you _want_ me to say, MacLeod? That everything's going to work itself out as usual? That I'm going to be just--peachy?--after a few days of--of hanging out in the woods? Sorry Mac, but this time it's too much!" Methos turned away from him and leaned heavily against a tree, sighing deeply. "It's just too much . . ." Methos stared out at the past. "You can't possibly imagine what it felt like, Highlander . . . all I wanted was the control, the power. Just like . . . before. I could barely eat or sleep. Nothing mattered except the rush I was getting." 

"Then why try to deal with it alone?" 

"I meant what I said when I told you and Joe that I don't really know who I am anymore. Considering everything that's happened over the past two years . . . The Watchers nearly disintegrated. Cassandra and Kronos show up and almost rip our friendship apart. Then we had to fight the essence of an Immortal who technically died nearly eight thousand years ago but decided that it would be fun to hang out in your mind for awhile! And last but not least, I tried to take your lover's head and then almost took yours _and_ Caitlin's! So you tell _me_ , Mac, exactly what remains to be said here. I choose to deal with this alone because if I don't I may end up doing something far worse than taking a blade to somebody's neck!" Methos rubbed a hand across his face. "You don't know how close I came to literally going insane . . . mind your own bloody business this once. Please." 

"I can't, Methos. I won't. And besides, shouldn't that be my choice? I can't speak for Caitlin but I'm willing to bet that she would do anything to help you. And so would I. So it's up to you: you can stay here by yourself in the woods as long as you want, and find your peace the hard way, or you can come back to the cabin and talk this out rationally." 

Methos felt the mounted tension he'd been barely holding at bay for so long finally snap, and he spun around, fist aimed at Duncan, eyes dark. The younger Immortal had been expecting some kind of release--hoping for it; the anger had been building inside Methos for days--and was ready, neatly reaching out an arm to flip Methos on his back in the marshy ground by the water's edge. The ancient man pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at MacLeod, breathing hard from the unexpected maneuver after more than three days of inactivity. They stared at one another, a contest of wills, Duncan patiently waiting for Methos to decide what to do. Finally the old Immortal held out his hand, and Mac pulled him to his feet. Methos shook his head. 

"You're still a pain in the ass," he said, but there was a slight hint of humor glinting in his hazel eyes. 

"I wouldn't have it any other way." 

Together they walked back to the cabin. 

* * *

"How long do you think he'll be gone?" 

Caitlin and Duncan were watching Methos buy plane tickets at the main airport in Seacouver. 

"A few weeks, probably a few months at the most. He's done this before." Mac glanced out the windows of the airport lobby. "After Adam's worked things out for himself he'll show up out of nowhere, sprawled on my couch and raiding my fridge." 

Caitlin smiled. "That definitely sounds like him!" 

"Talking about me again?" Methos walked over to them, stuffing his passport and tickets into a coat pocket. 

"Only discussing how to put an Immortal-proof lock on my loft," Duncan joked. 

"No need." Methos flashed a pair of keys at him. 

"What?!. . ." 

"You shouldn't leave your extra keys lying around where innocent little boys can 'borrow' them." 

Caitlin couldn't hold in her laughter. 

"So where are you going?" Duncan helped Methos with his luggage as they all walked down to the gate. 

"I don't know yet. Tibet, Athens, Egypt, South America . . . it's still a big world." Methos tossed his two bags onto the luggage belt and checked in. 

"Looks like that's it." He turned back to his friends. 

"Don't be a stranger, okay?" Caitlin hugged him, and Methos gladly returned it. He looked back at her. 

"Start practicing some new stuff with Mac. Richie may be able to help as well. Swordfighting is a little different than using a klaive." He laid a hand on her shoulder for a moment. 

"I will." Cait gave his arm a gentle squeeze, then let go. 

Duncan watched them with fond memories of himself and Tessa. It wouldn't be long before Caitlin and Methos truly discovered their feelings for one another. Methos went over to MacLeod, not exactly sure what to say. Sometimes silence said everything; some things were beyond words. 

"Watch yourself out there," Duncan said. "We'll have a cold one waiting for you when you come back." 

Methos smiled a little at that and gave them a wave before heading to the plane. 

Mac and Caitlin watched their companion go, long coat held tightly around him as he sauntered off in his familiar walk. 

THE END 

* * *

© 2000   
Please send comments to the author! 

09/29/2000 

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